Blood Beast. Darren Shan
a poser. So sue me.
→ Just before the bell rings for class, my last petitioner approaches. Bill-E. He’s smiling awkwardly, even more so than usual. “Hi Grubbs.”
“Hi.”
“How’s tricks, Spleenio?” Loch says, putting out his hand. I groan as Bill-E falls for the trick again, makes to shake and is humiliated when Loch whips his hand away. “Sucker!”
I don’t wait for Bill-E or Loch to say anything else. “Have you heard about the party?” I ask quickly.
“Yeah,” Bill-E says. “I know I was supposed to come over this weekend, but–”
“You’re not going to back out, are you?” I cut him short. “C’mon, Bill-E, this is my first party. I need you there for moral support.”
A rosy glow of happiness spreads outwards from the centre of the chubby boy’s cheeks. “You want me to come?” he asks quietly, half-suspecting a cruel joke.
“Of course,” I say firmly. “In fact, if you don’t, the party’s off.”
“Now hold on a minute…” Loch begins, startled.
“I mean it,” I silence him, eyes on Bill-E, trying to put right at least some of the wrong things between us.
“Well… I mean… I guess… OK,” Bill-E grins. “Sure. Why not?”
“Great.” I raise a warning finger. “But don’t tell Ma and Pa Spleen it’s a party or they’ll never let you come.”
“No sheet, Sherlock!” Bill-E laughs and heads off, much happier than I’ve seen him in a long while.
→ Dervish is getting ready to leave. In his leathers, pulling the straps out of his helmet. His motorcycle’s outside the front door, primed to go. “Is the party tonight or tomorrow?” he asks.
“Tomorrow. Too awkward for people to come tonight. Plus it gives me time to go shopping in the Vale in the morning.”
“You know I’ll be back early Sunday afternoon,” he reminds me.
“I know.”
“If I walk in and find pools of puke and mountains of rubbish…”
“You won’t,” I assure him. “There aren’t many coming, and a few are sleeping over to help clean up in the morning. The only thing is, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to do all the laundry before you return.”
“That’s fine,” Dervish says, then raises an eyebrow. “Those staying over are all boys, I presume?”
“Of course.”
“They’d better be. Because if I find out otherwise…”
“You won’t.”
“Good.”
The pair of massive front doors are already open. Dervish walks out, breathing in fresh spring air. “It’s supposed to be cold over the weekend,” he says. “Don’t leave the windows open or the house will be freezing.”
“I have everything in hand,” I tell him.
“I doubt it.” He climbs on to his bike.
“Say hi to Meera from me.”
“Sure.”
“Give her a kiss from me too.”
“Funny guy.” Then without a goodbye he’s off, tearing down the driveway, already approaching the speed limit — and he’s only warming up. If everyone drove like my maniac of an uncle, the roads would be awash with blood.
→ This isn’t the first time Dervish has left me alone in the house, but it’s the first time he’s left me in total control. Before, the understanding was always that I was simply holding the fort. No parties. This time he’s as good as said the house is mine for the next forty-odd hours, to do with as I wish.
It feels strange. I find myself thinking of everything that could go wrong — broken windows, smashed vases, someone stumbling into Dervish’s study and turning into a frog. I half wish I could cancel. I’ve been to a couple of wild parties with Loch over the last few months and never worried about what we were doing, the mess we were making, what would happen to the kids who lived there when their parents returned. Now the shoe’s on my foot, I realise what a risky undertaking it is. Maybe I should pull a sickie and call the whole thing off.
The phone rings. Loch. It’s as if he’s sensed my wavering mood and is intervening to sway me back into party mode. “Has Dervish gone?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Good. I didn’t want to discuss it at school – too many ears – but what about booze? Yay or nay?”
“That might be a bit much,” I mutter. “Things will probably be wild enough if everyone’s sober.”
“Yeah, it’ll be wilder if everyone’s drunk,” Loch laughs, “but a lot more fun! I was thinking about all those bottles of wine in the cellar…”
“No way,” I snap. “Most are expensive. Very expensive. Nobody goes near the wine. That’s a golden rule. If anyone breaks it, I’ll kick you all out.”
“Spoilsport,” Loch grumbles. “Well, what about beer? I could ask one of my older cousins to get us a crate or two.”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
“You’re not wimping out, are you?” he asks suspiciously.
“Well…” I start.
“Good,” Loch says quickly. “Let’s forget about the booze then. If anybody brings some, great. If not, we’ll just muddle by sober. Fair enough?”
“Yeah,” I say unhappily. “I guess.”
“Great. See you in the morning. Oh, and I’ll be bringing Reni, to help carry the bags. Is that OK?”
“Sure,” I say, spirits lifting, instantly forgetting about my reservations. “That’ll be… fine. Yeah. Whatever.”
A short laugh, then Loch hangs up, leaving me to get on with the planning of the party.
→ Loch, Reni and I make three runs to the village. Frank and Leon join us on the last run, when we realise we need more hands. It’s brilliant spending so much time with Reni, walking beside her in and out of Carcery Vale, discussing the party, bands, politics… whatever she feels like talking about.
Loch offers to chip in with some money for the drinks and food, but I tell him it’s OK. Dervish is rich – there’s a family fortune knocking about which will one day be mine and Bill-E’s – and he never begrudges me anything. He left a wad of cash for me in his study and told me to make good use of it.
Reni does a lot of the organising. I spent a couple of hours last night drawing up a list of everything we might need and was more than a little pleased with myself. She took one look at the list this morning, laughed and tore it up. “Is Jesus coming?” she asked.
“Uh… no,” I replied, astonished.
“Then forget about the loaves and fishes miracle. What you had on that list wouldn’t have got us through to nine o’clock. Now, fetch me a fresh pad and pen — this needs a woman’s considered touch.”
Much as I hate to admit it, she was right. Carrying the supplies back from Carcery Vale, it feels like we’ve bought far too much — we could feed the starving millions with this lot. But by the time we’ve divided it out into plates and bowls, and distributed them around the three main party rooms – two big living rooms and the kitchen – there doesn’t look to be a whole load.
“Maybe we need to make another run,” Frank muses, opening a bag of crisps.
“Maybe